


the constant traveller, propitiously carving

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Meera Reed, Doomed Relationship, F/M, Lifelong Romance, Robb Stark is a Gift, Season/Series 01, Secret Relationship, United North, but Boys are Dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: One: Robb moves back and forth across the North, building castles and breaking hearts.Two: Robb and Meera enjoy an indulgent morning together, despite her (third!) refusal to marry him.Three: Robb finally gets his deepest desire fulfilled.Four: Robb and Meera react to an unexpected circumstance.





	1. Chapter 1

Robb roughly throws a spare jerkin into his travel pack, almost tearing it in his haste. He resists the urge to roar and shout curses to the gods, or destroy his room in a petulant fit. He feels Sansa’s presence at his back like a beacon, luring him to meet her eyes. But he cannot; he will not. She wants only to try and reason with him, to bid him act sensibly.  If he allows her to catch his eye he will be handing her the reins to slip inside his mind. And he does not want to see reason, to be calmed or mollified or pitied. He wants this anger to burn bright and hot, to howl this pain out until it swallows him whole. After all he sacrificed for this union, to discover it was all a jest to the Lannister Imp is a bitter draft to swallow.

And now they expect him to jovially court the girl he believed to be a handmaiden, as though his feelings are of no consequence. There is a small part of him that knows it is not Myrcella’s fault; she is at the mercy of her family, just as he is. She must do as they bid. But that rational thought is squashed down by the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Right now, the whole pack of them are his enemies, and he is not ready to consider forgiveness. If Mother and Father were here he would be forced to stow his emotions; with them gone he can unleash them, without much thought of the consequences.

And perhaps he might need time to grieve the loss of an affection that was barely beginning to form, though he would never admit it.

There is no denying his pride has taken a knock. He is still an honest, honourable Northman, for all that Sansa has taught him about politics.  He is not a dog to teach tricks and call to heel. And he did not expect to be treated with this much guile. The Baratheons and Lannister Imp have used him ill; now they will know the full force of his displeasure.

Oh, he knows he cannot cast Rosamund- the real Myrcella- whoever she is- aside completely. His Father and the King himself brokered this engagement. But that does not mean he will sit idly by while they play their japes and snigger behind his back. He cannot cast her out of Winterfell. It does not mean he must remain in her presence.

“Think on the consequences, Robb,” Sansa pleads. “The smallfolk will say they drove you from your own castle.”

“I won’t spend the next five moons looking on her face,” He snarls, irrationally furious that she is not more angry on his behalf.

“Robb-” she begins again, but he finally loses control. In one swift movement, he snatches up a flagon and tosses it against the far wall. Watching with savage pleasure as the metal screeches on stone and ale pours down the wall.

“I will not,” he hisses, finally meeting his sister’s pale face.

Sansa flinches back from whatever manic look is gleaming in his eyes. Briefly, he feels the sting of shame, frightening his pregnant sister. None of this is her doing. She only wishes to mitigate the disaster, but he does not want to suppress his feelings over this. He swallowed them once, when his Father betrothed him to a little girl. He will not do it again after losing her. Having just begun to see her as someone he might someday care for deeply.

Sansa does not protest again. Not when he gives little Rickon control of Winterfell, under her and Maester Luwin’s charge. Not even when Tyrion Lannister approaches him and Robb simply barrels on. He shoves the little lord aside so hard that he topples over onto his stunted backside.

Robb loudly crashes out of the gate, leaving Winterfell behind in a clatter of hooves, spurring his horse on with strong heels. As the breeze whips through his hair, he lets himself enjoy the savage pleasure of reckless abandonment. Father was ever a stoic man, not the typical Stark wolf. Robb has long been considered as a follower in Ned Stark's footsteps, tempered by his Southron mother. It was a point of pride to him to behave as honourably as his Father, but there is more wolf-blood in him than anyone suspects. Maybe it is about time he revealed it so.

*

The ride to Greywater Watch takes longer than he hoped for. Sansa sent guards after him, of course. They insisted on some time at an inn, to properly rest and see the horses cared for. When they finally reach Moat Cailin, Jon is not surprised to see him. Sansa’s raven preceded him, naturally. Jon at least offers no false platitudes, only clasps Robb close in greeting. Shooting him worried, piteous looks when he believes Robb cannot see.

After copious amounts of ale, Robb’s rage turns to melancholy. He falls asleep in Jon’s solar, and wakes to find himself covered in warm furs. Ghost and Grey Wind are curled up about his feet and under his legs, which are still raised on the little leather footstool. Jon offers him a steaming mug of tea and a wry smile.

“I can’t persuade you to go home, can I?” Jon asks, settling into the opposite chair.

“Come this far haven’t I?” Robb retorts, “I agreed to those stupid rules as to not offend my new bride, with her Southron blood and royal family. Mother wouldn’t stop twittering about the insult it would be.”

Jon sighs heavily but says nothing, as Robb anticipated. The Master of Moat Cailin never likes to speak out against Lady Stark, no matter how cruel she was to him. Frankly, talking of his bastardy was mayhaps the only topic he is more silent on.

“Mother demanded I do something dishonourable out of respect for them,” Robb continues, “but they have lost the right to expect such dubious displays of respect from me.”

“If you do this, you cannot take it back,” Jon cautions, but Robb dismisses him with a shrug.

He has already made his decision, and refuses to contemplate any more craven acts. He presses a hand to his aching head, in an attempt to stem the throbbing there. He was far too deep into his cups the previous night, and has no one but himself to blame for the resulting discomfort.

Ghost sits up and settles his massive head in Robb’s lap, red eyes begging for attention. Robb obliges by dropping his spare hand into his fur, and rubbing his furry ears. It affords some measure of comfort, but not enough to sooth the bubble of rage that is even now beginning to boil up in his stomach.

There are those that would chide him for being so rash. Mother especially. Sansa would certainly call him a short-sighted fool. But they are not here, and even if they were, Robb would not suffer to listen. He has stayed his hand thus far, and all it brought was misery and humiliation.

*

In the marshes, she appears to him like a spectre through the mist. A distorted shadow only made distinct when almost close enough to touch. Robb finds himself floundering, at a loss for words, as he oft is in her presence. Meera offers him the echo of a smile, her thin lips pressed closed. Her bow is slung casually across her back, but he knows better than to dismiss the possibility of hidden weapons. At this distance, a dagger would not fail to miss its mark. Especially because he would not lift a hand to stay it. She has every right to be furious with him, after all he promised but failed to uphold.

“I did not think to find you here again. You said you would not come back,” she whispers, her lilting tone turning it into somewhat of a question.

“I was a fool,” he admits, “I let others dictate what was best for me.”

Meera lets out a small humming noise of acknowledgement, her warm brown eyes guarded. He feels the distance between them like a roaring river with no shallow stream to cross.

“And now?” She finally asks.

“Now I know that I need not be constrained by my parent’s wishes.” He quickly replies.

Robb is not ashamed of his pleading tone. He will never even find Greywater without her assistance. They will be lost to him forever, without her consent to return to the enigmatic castle he admired so much. He is entirely at her mercy, and the crannogmen were not known for their forgiving nature.

Meera only hums again, apparently unconvinced by his claim. But she advances closer at least, which means she is affording him a chance to make amends. She stops when they are close enough to share breath. Then she tilts her head back, thrusting out her chin, so that their eyes meet. She is enchanting, even in her hunting clothes, in the low light and gloom of a thick fog. Robb wants to tangle his fingers into her messy curls and tug her close. Bestowing kisses and words of affection upon her until she cannot help but succumb to his charms. He resists, knowing she will not welcome his advances, not now.

“I told you, it was not necessary for you to reveal any of it. That nothing need change for you.” Meera reminds him, “You were the one who insisted-”

“I know,” Robb cuts her off, “I know, and there are no words which could explain how sorry I am, to have broken my vow. A man can only admit when he has done wrong and beg forgiveness. Meera, I swear it was never my intention to go back on my word.”

“I would not name you for an oathbreaker, Robb Stark.” She counters, bitterly amused. “Just a disappointment.”

Stung, Robb absorbs the blow as though it were the sing of steel against his shield. There is worse she could charge him with, but she refrains, and he is pathetically grateful. He does not truly wish to know how much of a failure she considers him to be. Wordless, he only nods, willing to accept her chastisement. His gaze drops to the soggy grass at their feet.

“And if I were to lead you to Greywater, what assurances would you give me?” She asks plainly.

His head shoots back up, hope singing through his veins. For a long moment, he hardly dares to breathe, blinking back hot tears through sheer force of will.

“Anything you command. Meera, I would give you all that is in my power to give. I offer again what you once denied; my cloak and House and all that comes with it.” He pleads shamelessly, not willing to acknowledge his betrothal to House Baratheon is unavoidable.

Meera tilts her head in confusion, not so quick to forget. “And the Baratheon girl? Is she so easily set aside?”

Robb snorts unattractively. “She is not who she claimed to be. The Imp had me court an imposter, until he felt able to trust me with the real Princess. Then he trotted out the real girl, as though I should have been grateful for the deception. I’ll have no man treat me as a fool.”

“I see,” Meera glares, eyes flashing with a sudden wild fury. She takes a sharp step backward and hisses; “Your pride has been dented, so you come crawling back to the Neck for comfort.”

Robb is acutely aware that if the mists cloud her, he might never set eyes upon her again. Frantic, his hand snaps out free of his will, catching hold of her elbow.

“No, Meera-” he pleads, his grip is bruising. Aware his control is quickly slipping, he lightens his hold almost immediately, but does not let her go completely.

“Wait,” Robb begs, “I spoke hastily, please let me explain.”

“Perhaps I have heard enough,” she hisses back, her smooth skin hard as frozen stone.

“I do not love her, neither the imposter nor the Princess. Always, I thought of you… every smile and look and kind word I set upon her felt like a betrayal of my feeling for you.” Robb finally admits, not proud of his weak inability to shield his heart from this girl he cannot have.

In any case, Meera is not impressed, huffing and tugging hard enough to unsettle his hold on her. He releases her without a struggle; but Robb still forges on undaunted. Certain that beneath her stony exterior, she still cares for him. Perhaps unwillingly, and in spite of her best efforts. Yet he is determined to bring that care to the surface, dogged in his pursuit of the affection he knows she still harbours.

“I ached for you.” He declares, “But I made a solemn promise that I would at least try to forget our affection, and be mindful of her.”

“Then do as you promised, and try courting the actual girl.” Meera snaps, “Leave us in peace.”

“Meera, you cannot mean it,” Robb pleads, gently settling his hands atop her petite shoulders. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but please, don’t cast me aside without even a chance to make amends.”

She sighs heavily, her eyes fixed somewhere just past his left ear.

“If it were just myself to consider…” she whispers reluctantly, before visibly steeling herself against him. “But it is not.”

“I know,” Robb replies, equally quiet, “I promise, I am here to toy with no one’s affections. Please, Meera.”

Conflicted, she meets his blazing blue eyes. Finally, she affords him a short, sharp nod.

“On the condition we will have no more talk of marriage. We both know you cannot escape your betrothal so easily,” she chides.

Robb nods, though he is not yet resigned to his fate. Truthfully he would agree to almost anything she asked, if only she would take him back to Greywater Watch.

“And you will make no more promises you cannot keep.” Meera pleads, her beautiful brown eyes big and desperate, like a cornered doe.

Careful to move slowly, Robb slides his hands up from her shoulders, to rest on either side of her face. He gently tucks her curly hair behind her small ears, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.

“I only wish to spend whatever time I can with you, and our son.” He says, solemn as any prayer he has ever made to the gods.

At long last Meera agrees, tilting her head back to accept his soft lips. Robb sighs blissfully against her mouth, wrapping one arm about her fur-clad back, to pull them into a close embrace. Her hands tangle into his hair as he loses all thought. Swallowed up and entirely consumed by a love he cannot keep.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up slowly, encased in familiar warmth, Meera’s naked body wrapped around his own beneath the furs. Robb’s face was nestled into her frizzy hair, inhaling the earthy scent of her, something like the fresh grass after the rain and the sunshine. The weight of her was wonderful. Robb slid his hands gently over her still-sleeping skin, resting reverently on her swollen stomach. He wasn’t able to see her this early on, in her first pregnancy; didn’t even learn about it until almost the end. This time, he got to stroke and caress her in the early stages, when she allowed him.

She snuffled in his arms, blinking awake slowly. Robb’s foolish grin was kissed away when she reached up to smooth the stubble on his cheek. Half-asleep still, Meera allowed herself to be rolled gently onto her back. Robb settled between her legs as though he was built to fit there. He mouthed at one swollen teat; no milk to be worried from the nipple yet, not for lack of enthusiasm. Robb moaned anyway, at the remembered sweetness. He won’t have to wait long to taste her again.

He slipped into her leisurely, swallowing her sharp inhale with his lips. He rocked gradually, bringing her to the edge painfully slowly, before letting her crash over it assisted by his fingers, worrying at her sensitive bud. She whined loudly, her fingers ranking through his curls. After, she laid boneless as sat back onto his heels, dragging her up by the hips until she rested on his lap.

Robb fucked like he meant it then, deep, powerful thrusts as she clenched around him, wet and tight. Her heels pressed into his lower back as she clung on. Her moans were are louder then; high and long as she screamed out her pleasure. Robb grinned lustily, squeezing her breast as she peaked again, before following her off the cliff with a grunt.

He was careful to collapse to the side of her, so as not to squash the babe still growing within her. They didn’t get long to bask in the afterglow. The door to her chamber slammed open with a thump. Robb was quick to throw the furs back over them, but not before Jojen Reed got an eyeful of their flesh.

The boy glared at him hatefully with his nephew, their son, in his arms.

“He’s been asking for you for hours,” The boy snarled, as though it wasn’t still early morn. As if they had neglected and abandoned their child.

Robb rolled his eyes at the dramatics, used to this level of contempt. The boy hated him for defiling his sister, and Robb can’t truly hold it against him. He would be the same. If he were in Jojen’s shoes, facing down Sansa or Arya’s lover, there would be more than just harsh words. Then again, when Robb first returned to the Neck during Meera’s first pregnancy, Jojen had socked him in the jaw so hard, he’d worn a shining purple bruise for weeks afterward. Robb respected him for it, much to Jojen’s chagrin.

Wulf immediately stuck his hands in his mouth after Jojen’s words, a clear sign he was afraid he had done something wrong. Jojen sighed heavily, but shuffled closer. Reluctantly, he deposited the boy in Robb’s outstretched arms. Meera rolled up onto her side so she could face them. She reached up with one hand to tickle Wulf’s foot, until he shrieked with laughter.

Mother was going to be furious when she found out Meera was with child again. She’d hit Robb too, when he was forced to tell her the first time. A strong smack across the face, right in the courtyard where anyone could see. She’d proceeded to shake him, as she cursed him for a fool and pummelled his chest with her fists until Father had dragged her off. He had been at a loss for words.

Robb had never seen his lady mother so incensed, reacting on instinct without decorum. And it reassured him that it appeared Father hadn’t either. Mother had stormed away to the Sept and refused to speak to him for days afterward. Robb really wasn’t looking forward to the entire process being repeated. Especially since Father was in the Vale, and wouldn’t be available to calm her this time.

Still, he couldn’t be sorry for the babe. Robb had always told himself he wouldn’t repeat Father’s mistakes, wouldn’t subject a child to what Jon had gone through. Though he’d failed on the first part, he’d managed the second. Wulf had several things Jon never had. A loving mother, most importantly. In the Neck, the crannogmen were used to scorn and derision, even from their fellow Northmen. It had made them become somewhat insular. They didn’t seem to care that Wulf was a bastard, more concerned that he was a crannogman, and therefore their responsibility to love and rear.

Robb pressed wet kisses to his son’s stomach, to enjoy the resulting giggles. It allowed Meera to slip from the bed first, but she didn’t bathe and dress herself as he had expected, wrapping herself in only a cloak. Robb raised an eyebrow in disbelief when she asked him to do the same. But he allowed himself to be dragged practically naked down to the river, at a spot that pooled into somewhat of a lake. The three of them whiled away the rest of the morn swimming, until servants came to present them with a picnic luncheon, and clothes.

Meera laughed at his expression of disbelief that this kind of behaviour was accepted enough to be expected. Robb kissed away her laughter, the two of them resurfacing to discover Wulf had found the blueberry cake, and had smothered half his face with it. Thankfully, there was enough left for them to enjoy a slice as food, rather than body paint.

“I wish it could be like this forever,” Robb confessed, “Sometimes I think about forfeiting my lordship, letting Winterfell pass to Bran.”

Meera levelled him with a look, the jovial expression wiped clean from her face. “Don’t say such things.”

“But why not? I can be a petty lord, here, with you. We could be married…”

“Stop it,” Meera snarled, immediately sore with him, as she always was when he mentioned marriage. “These are the fantasies of a child, not the words of a man with one son and another on the way.”

“Don’t belittle me!” Robb snapped, “If Duncan the Small can give up the Iron Throne, why can’t I give up my father’s seat? He has two other heirs!”

“It’s not just Winterfell you would sacrifice!” Meera wailed, suddenly on her knees before him, holding his face between her hands. “Promise me you will forget this foolishness. That you will not do this.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Robb said stubbornly. “It’s my life. I don’t need the North; I’d rather have you.”

“Petulant boy,” Meera hissed, “The North needs you as its King in the wars to come.”

Robb felt his stomach drop, his head freeze as though he had eaten something cold too quickly. Sansa and now Meera; would women never stop proclaiming him the future King in the North?

“Who have you been talking to?” Robb demanded.

He was suddenly afraid that Sansa’s words had spread this far South. Who else knew, and what plots were afoot because of it? Was there time to consider counter moves, or would they be caught unawares if Robert Baratheon rode North at whispers of treason.

Meera eyed him regretfully, as though sorry for her words, or maybe just for speaking them.

“Jojen,” she said simply, which was no answer at all, and Robb told her so.

Which is how Robb came to learn the grumpy boy, his goodbrother in all but name, spoke to the old gods through the weirwoods. A greenseer, Meera called it. He wanted to scoff, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose as she described Robb as a great King, his family stretching their alliances across the realm to make themselves safe. Jojen had seen it in the trees; just as Sansa had described, all those years ago.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been many long years since Meera last came to Winterfell. She knew her presence there would cause a rift between him and Rosa, and she truly didn’t want that, so she kept to the Neck and her own people. Meera had accepted that Robb's heart was shared between them, in a way Robb never could have, if she had married another man herself. That made him selfish and he knew it. But it was only the truth. Robb had never tried to dissuade her from a relationship of her own, but Meera had laughed him off whenever he mentioned it. 

“There’s none I love save you,” she would whisper, stoking his beard or kissing his brow. “Why chain myself to some man who will come to resent me for not loving him as I love you?”

The pride that would swell in his chest at those words, of her absolute certainty of their truthfulness, would stop him from pressing the issue. But he should have. She should have married, had more children. She could have been happy with another, instead of alone in her swamp for so many years.

Robb had treated her ill, and he knew it. He didn’t have to marry Rosa after the war; could have pressed his claim for the Westerlands through right of conquest. But Robert Baratheon would only have turned on him, and deployed his troops to conquer it right back. To prevent more bloodshed, he’d taken Rosa to wife instead, claiming a third of the land and the revenues from its goldmines through her Lannister blood. He had needed to feed his people during the Long Night, to rebuild after the war against the False Stags, so he justified the mercenary grab for wealth. And perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted Meera to refuse him again, even as a King. There are only so many times a man can be told “no” before his pride is rankled. 

He’d come to regret the decision not to ask her one last time, many times over the years. When it became evident that even his genuine love for Rosa wasn’t enough to push Meera from his heart. He tried to defend his choice, by reminding himself Meera could have protested when he wrote to her from King’s Landing. She could have travelled to wed him in the Sept of Baelor. But could she truly? With a newborn babe to care for? And would a Reed, fiercely devoted to the old gods, ever marry before the Seven? He hadn't given her a chance and it had been his own fault that he suffered for it. Sometimes the separation between them became so unbearable that he rode to the Neck, to stay with her for months at a time. Rosa would spend hours praying in the Sept whenever he was gone, he learned. She could never forgive him for his inability to remain faithful to his wedding vows.

But now Meera was leaving the Neck one last time for him. Not to ride South, but to Winterfell, into his arms at last. It had been a year since Rosa had finally succumbed to a long-term illness. Her last months had been painful and awful, and Robb had wanted nothing more than to run to the Neck afterward. But he knew how it would look, and he is a good enough King to understand the importance of public appearance. He dutifully remained put, for six moons. Then he returned to Greywater Watch.

Wordlessly she had come to him from the mist, as though they were youths still, snatching kisses on private crannogs and not wrinkled, aged warriors, Robb’s hair holding too much silver for his liking. Meera was still beautiful, the lines on her face making her only more dignified. Robb had kissed her deeply, and whispered;

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

Meera had laughed, and told him to go home. Bitterly disappointed, Robb had almost wept, before she promised to join him in another six moons.

One of her most memorable excursions to Winterfell had no doubt been his son Ned’s wedding, when she asked him to legitimise Jojen. As a result of that, Jojen was now the Lord of Moat Cailin. Robb was proud his boy had inherited his first restored ruined keep. It had sat largely empty after Jon had taken Dragonstone, save for a steward and some servants. 

And of course, there was Meera’s most infamous visit. The one where she’d slapped him in front of almost his entire court, upon learning the truth of Jeor’s birth. His Mormont son's conception was a single moment of desperate connection during the war, when Robb had learned of his own father’s death. It hadn’t soothed her heartache, even though Robb could tell it pleased Meera, that it hadn’t been a long affair.

Still, she had been pregnant when he betrayed her, and she still hadn’t forgiven him for it. Robb hardly expected her to. Meera had a difficult second pregnancy. She had even sent a raven to the camp, via the steward of Moat Cailin, as Greywater Watch had no ravens, but Jon had taken some there. Meera wrote of her fears she might not survive the birth. And in such circumstance, she wanted their boys to remain in the Neck. In the care of her parents and brother, and not fostered with strangers. 

Robb had been terrified from that moment on that her dire prediction would come true. And that he would fall in battle, leaving their boys orphans. The loss of his father had tipped him into despair- and Dacey Mormont’s arms. It was only the one night, but one night was enough. Jeor might take after his mother, but he had Robb’s eyes and curls, though his were brown not red. How could he tell Meera he'd lain with another, while she struggled through pregnancy and feared for her life? 

But moons became years, with Robb always putting it off with one excuse or another. Until Jeor himself had announced it to the world at large. The look on Meera's face when he didn't deny the charge was something Robb would never forget. He'd had to chase her when she stormed from the room. Then carry her to his solar over his shoulder whilst she fought him like a shadowcat, in order to explain the circumstances in private. Robb still bore a scar on his neck where Meera's nails had shredded the skin. 

But here she was again. Standing tall and beautiful, flanked by their incredulous sons, who had been told nothing until now. Robb had wanted to inform them himself.

They didn’t wait; Robb had assembled his lords for a ‘grand feast’ and demanded Bran attend, as his brother rarely left the Riverlands since he became a King. To his great surprise, Bran had brought Mother, who hadn’t left the Riverlands at all. Not after moving there to be an advisor to her young son, when he became the Lord Paramount of her homeland. Robb had barely spoken to his mother in all those years since she had left. The rift between them had only deepened with time, after he had another child with Meera, and later married Rosa without her leave.

Yet it was a joy to see her again, frail as she was now, her hair entirely white. She stroked his face and called him her boy, despite Robb being older now than Father was when he died. Perhaps now, so many years gone, the tear between them could be mended.

Robb hadn’t told any of his court the reason why they must assemble in the godswood. Surely some had guessed, since it was night, but no one enquired as to who the participants would be. There was a frisson of surprise when Robb himself stood before the heart tree and Bran asked who came before the old gods.

“Meera of House Reed, a woman grown and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the old gods,” Wulf replied, proudly holding his mother’s arm.

“Who comes to claim her?” asked Bran.

“Robb of House Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?” said Robb, in his most lofty King voice.

“Wulfric Reed, who is her son.”

“Lady Meera, do you take this man?” said Bran, grinning broadly.

“I take this man,” Meera said, her eyes glittering in the torchlight, resplendent in her moss-green dress.

“King Robb, do you take this woman?”

“I take this woman,” said Robb, before Bran had finished speaking, to muffled giggles from the crowd.

He unclasped his new cloak, an extravagant silvery number covered in direwolves. Seven of whom were replicas of the original group, those first brought to Winterfell when they were children. Sansa had insisted on sewing it for him, then had it sent by ship from Pyke to Sea Dragon Point, where Robb had built a port around twenty years ago. (It was now a bustling city in its own right, fierce in rivalry with White Harbour for trade.) Robb wrapped his lovely cloak around Meera’s shoulders with pride. Then they were instructed to look upon one another and say the words.

“I am hers and she is mine from this day, until the end of my days.” said Robb, as Meera spoke her part in unison, and a truer word he had never spoken in his life. 

Kissing Meera before Winterfell’s heart tree, Robb Stark was suddenly fourteen years old again, freshly in love for the first time, about to be a father. And all his dreams had come true.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re certain?” Robb asked, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

“No,” said Meera, “but Maester Theodore assures me of it. I didn’t believe it myself, which is why I held back from asking him to confirm it for so long.”

“It’s not unheard of,” Robb mused, “ And yet I never thought…”

“Are you displeased with me?” Meera asked, his queen shifting nervously in her lovely dress, her hand clenched around her fork. They were breaking their fast together in private, as they almost always did these days. 

“Of course not!” Robb said quickly, standing up to round the table and offer her his hands. She took them both, stepping gracefully into his embrace.

He held her close for a long moment, inhaling the scent of her, delighted by the feel of her in his arms. The years they had spent together in Winterfell as man and wife had some of the happiest in his life, and he told her so.

“You have already made me the happiest man in the known world. I did not think it was possible to feel yet more joy, but here you are, providing it for me,” Robb chucked kindly, dropping a kiss to her brow.

“I don’t know how we shall tell the children.” Meera whispered, “They might be angry with us.”

“We could hardly have predicted this.” Robb disagreed, “And besides, they have had good lives. Been cherished. We provided for them the best we could, made them good, suitable matches. Let them marry for love in most cases. Jojen… Jojen chose to leave the safety of the North. Essos is a dangerous place. What happened was not our fault.”

“We should have protected him, Robb. He shouldn't have felt he needed to run away, without our leave.” Meera sighed, for it was an old discussion between them, circular and unending. They would never be rid of the guilt.

Robb rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms, comfortingly. “Young men are willful and exuberant. I was the same. I would not be told; I did not want to be coddled, protected at all times. Jojen wanted to explore, to see the world in truth. He took the risk, and the consequences that fell upon him… If I could go back, I would have kept him in Winterfell. Had I known what he would choose to do, left to his own devices in the Neck.”

“As would I,” Meera agreed. “But we cannot go back. Perhaps we might persuade all the children to come home for a time.”

“Though they are hardly children anymore,” Robb said with a smile. “I should like that, though I am not sure Cerena can be persuaded.”

Cerena hadn’t set foot in Winterfell since Robb had married his former mistress. She had always taken her mother’s side in their arguments, and though she professed to follow both the old gods and the new, was always closer to the Seven. Out of all his children, she had taken the most umbridge with her father’s natural children, or at least the idea of them. 

“She will come around,” Meera promised him, “It must be difficult for Cerena to see me here, in her mother’s place.”

“Rosa was always in your place.” Robb countered, to which Meera shook her head and protested.

“What a horrid thing to say, Robb Stark. You chose to marry her.”

“I did,” Robb admitted, “And I thought of you, even on my first wedding day.”

“Enough,” Meera said, “Let us not sully this moment with past issues. Jojen, Rosa… we can never undo what was done, only look to the future.”

As usual, she was correct, and he told her so. He was thrilled with her news, but confessed his fear that their advanced age would make things difficult.

“Neither of us may make it to my Mother’s impressive age. I know what it is, to be young and fatherless.”

“Those are worries for another day. Ned is a good man; he will see to the North, this household included. I do not doubt his affection for all his siblings. He would take all due care.”

Robb’s heart swelled with pride to hear her speak so well of his son by another woman. But then Meera had always had enough love to spare for all his family. She loved anyone who shared blood with Robb out of hand, simply for being his kin. Such was the depth of her love for him.

He kissed her deeply then, for the joy of being able to do it legitimately. It never grew old, being able to make love to her in his home, to hear her addressed as “your grace” and “Queen Meera”, to wake up beside her every morning and spend all his days at her side.

“I will have matched my parents, when all is said and done.” Robb realised with a sudden smile. “I never expected to, as a boy. Six babes! Not counting Jon of course.”

“An auspicious number, for Starks.” Meera agreed. “Perhaps this little one will claim two good men as his brothers, as you did.”

“I hope they find companions as good and loyal as Jon and Theon,” replied Robb, before finally giving in to the urge to sweep her off her feet, as she laughed and wrapped her arms about his shoulders.


End file.
